


Flick

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Icheb attempts to impress his boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flick

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It took a bit of work, more work than he expected, to get this right. He didn’t want to waste all of his rations on the first few sure-to-fail attempts, so Icheb made all his measurements on the holodeck. He worked the adjustments in photons until everything fit perfectly before committing it to reality. When the crisp fabric appeared in the replicator, his breath still held, unsure if he could’ve truly anticipated everything. His specialty lies in the sciences, not in tailoring.

This isn’t the sort of thing he could ask for help with. He wouldn’t know who to tell, isn’t sure who he wants to know. Who would understand. If anyone would approve. He’s not even sure _Q_ will like it, and Q’s the one he’s doing it for.

Icheb does too many things for Q. When he asked the doctor, speaking only in hypotheticals and without any names, he was told that that’s what one does in a relationship; take risks for the sake of pleasing another. 

So he’s taking a chance, sitting on the edge of the bed in his newly-assigned quarters in his new outfit, waiting for his... his _boyfriend_... to arrive. 

Q shows up in a dazzling flash of light, right on schedule, sporting the usual Federation uniform and a bouquet of alien purple flowers in his hand. He’s in the middle of handing them to Icheb when he freezes mid-motion, mouth falling open. “Ichi.”

“Q-ball,” Icheb returns uncomfortably, shifting on the mattress. He doesn’t know what to do with his legs, so he crosses them. It draws Q’s attention downwards, which only makes him more self-conscious. 

The flowers disappear, and Q takes another step closer, towering over Icheb in his deceptively youthful body, wide eyed. It’d be nice if he switched to a smile instead, but this reaction is ambiguous; shock is no indication of approval or disapproval. Finally, Q manages to mouth, “What are you wearing?”

“A...” Icheb pauses, unsure of how detailed to make his report, “...school girl’s uniform. From Terran western culture, late twentieth century.” From stricter and/or religious late high school, early colleges. Modified to fit a somewhat tall, lean, Brunali male, of course. The pleated, plaid skirt falls smoothly across his lap, stopping partway down his thighs. The white button-up shirt just barely covers his midriff, and the tie around his neck matches his skirt and trails evenly down his chest. He even replicated knee-high socks, although he didn’t bother with the shoes, as they’re unlikely to leave his quarters and his rations were stretched far enough. 

Icheb waits for the reaction to come. When one doesn’t, he looks aside, shoulders hunching. Finally, he mumbles in explanation, “It’s just that you... you made a number of comments about women when we first met. I am aware I’m not your preferred gender, but I thought... perhaps if I indulged your... tastes... you might be more pleased with me.” Looking up, Icheb adds by way of explanation, “I chose a Terran cultural element, as it’s the species you’ve chosen to identify yourself with.”

Q says numbly, “Thoughtful.” Then he blinks and straightens.

Then he _laughs_ , a beautiful, chiming sound that shows off his teeth and makes Icheb’s blood feel cold. He stares at Q, hurt, and feels stupid, and shakes his head as he mutters, “I can change into something else.” He gets off the bed, heading to his wardrobe, and Q’s usual light flashes, and suddenly Icheb’s sitting on the bed again, just like before. 

He wrinkles his nose, momentarily forgetting the rest; he doesn’t like when Q uses that trick on him unsuspectingly. Q shakes his head and mumbles, “Sorry,” while wiping tears from his eyes. 

Then he bends forward and presses a hard, lingering kiss to Icheb’s mouth. Icheb grunts in surprise, and that lets Q’s tongue in, tracing Icheb’s mouth and pushing him back, and Icheb’s eyes flutter shut, distracted, as Q so often makes him, from everything. Q kisses him and kisses him harder, nearly bending him backwards over the bed, and then Icheb’s snapping, falling down with his arms wrapping around Q, and Q’s scooping him up by the waist. A second later, they’re in the middle of the bed, Icheb lying on his back and Q on top of him, up on hands and knees. Icheb can’t scowl, because their faces are too close, and his mouth is busy. When Q pulls away, Icheb doesn’t want to let him. He follows Q’s mouth with his own, pressing in last minute kisses, lifting up on his elbows, but Q pushes him down again a few centimeters later, smirking and sighing, “Down, drone.”

Icheb only obeys because he’s curious about the mixed reviews. Evidently, Q isn’t turned off by him. Perhaps his original plan was wise, after all.

Q’s smiling very, very wide, and leans down to press their foreheads together, held faintly apart by the hard line running down Icheb’s face. Q shifts to peck the bridge of his nose and whispers, “How’d a galactic problem-child like me ever get a sweet thing like you?”

Careful to keep his voice neutral, Icheb asks, “You don’t dislike it, then?”

Q laughs again, but less so, thankfully, just smiling wide and scrunching his eyes. “Icheb, I like _you_. I’m so pleased with you all the time; you have no idea.” He lifts one hand to wave vaguely, gesturing at nothing. “I’m a Q—I like everything! I don’t care about humanoid genders. I picked you and I like you like you are.” While Icheb’s stomach twists, filled with more of the doctor’s ‘butterflies,’ Q adds with a mischievous smirk, “Though you do look pretty cute in a skirt. And, since you seem to have a problem with my remarkably efficient way of stripping you, I do like the easy access...” He reaches back to run his hand along Icheb’s thigh as he talks, and Icheb shivers; he hadn’t even thought of that.

But he does like it when Q touches him. _A lot_. When he was first severed from the collective, he never would’ve thought physical contact could be so... so _vital_. Now, he wants it all the time. Just from Q. He thinks about it when Q isn’t around. He’s been told that’s what normal young men are like, but he... he’s hardly ‘normal,’ and he’s not used to it, but then he met Q, and Q’s electrifying...

Q bends to kiss him again, hand tracing idle circles along his thigh, running up, higher and higher, and it reaches the hem of his skirt. The soft pads of Q’s fingers slip below the fabric and slide up between his legs—Icheb hadn’t thought to replicate underwear. It didn’t seem... practical. 

Q’s hand encases his crotch, palm against his cock and fingers cupping his balls, and Q squeezes, and Icheb arches up moans. His own hands lift to Q’s shoulders, wanting more, and he’s surprised when he doesn’t find the stiff Starfleet material there. He focuses and finds a loose button-up under his fingers. Q’s tie drapes down over Icheb’s throat, falling to the side. Q flashes his charming but childish smile and purrs, “We can be schoolgirls together. Two horny, star-crossed schoolgirls...”

Q’s silly. But he’s _beautiful_ , and Icheb’s never felt the way he does with Q for anyone else. Q lifts up to sit on Icheb’s hips, smirking triumphantly as he rolls up Icheb’s skirt, his own stretched across is legs. 

Icheb grabs his tie and uses it to wrench him back down, smashing their mouths back together, making magic of his own.


End file.
